Unarmed in the Battle of Wits
By Joe Acton
So there I was, sitting there minding my own business not suspecting nothing — reading about the Hubble Space Telescope. Fascinating gizmo, it can spot a dime from 10,000 miles and tell you what the strike date is. Probably a handy thing to have around the house but I don't really need to know what a dime looks like from 10,000 miles out. Besides, what can a dime buy me when Starbucks is running at $2 for an Americano?
Anyway, I'm sitting there really getting into this article, when suddenly I notice that my legs have fallen asleep. Time to leave. I knew I was in trouble when I discovered the empty toilet paper roll. It was just sitting there, too. Doing nothing. With nothing. Not even a square on it. And then I saw the note written in brightly colored pens taped to it and knew I'd been had.
It read, "Dear Dad, last week you used the last of the toilet paper in my bathroom and didn't replace it. Today we don't have any more so I took yours. Don't worry though 'cause I wrote "toilet paper" on Mom's shopping list. Love, Erica."
Okay, we're at war now. No problem — I can handle this. I went to college. I know all about pranks. I figured this was going to be the proverbial piece of cake. That is until I realized I owned the house and there were certain sure-fire pranks that no matter how good they were I couldn't use: no Saran Wrap across the toilet seats, no Limburger cheese in the heating vents, no taping ping-pong balls to the push-in lock on the door so the key won't open it. I panicked when I realized I couldn't use my best stuff.
First I went bush-league. Rubber spider in the bed. No brainer. Didn't phase her. She laughed at me. Tossed me one of those 13-nearly-14-year-old snidely guffaws that says, "Not even close, old man — you've been out of the game too long."
Then just to prove it, she retaliated by sneaking into my bedroom, stealing my new copy of Forsythe's The Negotiator and changed my place. I read in bed until I get sleepy so I only get about 5 or 6 pages a night. She moved me back about 4 days. I spent two nights trying to figure out why everything I was reading seemed familiar. At first I thought, "Wow, Acton — you ought to be a novelist. What insight into the rhythm and cadence of a complicated plot. What intuition to character development. What ..... what the heck's going on here ... I've already read this stuff!"
Time to turn up the heat on the little urchin. Bring out the Big Guns. Show her who's boss. That she can't monkey around with The Big Kahuna. Something so dastardly she'll sue for peace. A preemptive strike into the enemy's heartland.
It was a nasty and dangerous plan, but she'd given me no choice. While she was taking a bath, I would raid her room and steal one of each of her shoes — but just one from pair. Then she'd have to admit defeat or risk being seen in public with clothes that didn't match — a fate worse than death if you're 13.
At the appointed hour I put on my jogging gear and went for a run while she climbed into the tub. I doubled back and made my move. As I'm collecting all the shoes I can find, my wife happens by and gives me one of those patented, "What in the world are you doing" interrogations.
No sweat, we've been married for decades — she doesn't really expect a rational answer. When I tell her I'm grabbing Erica's shoes to force unconditional surrender, my wife says, "Oh, that's nice honey — very adult-like, too."
Oh yeah — says who? Wait a minute, that didn't come out right.
Anyway, I grab the shoes and make a clean getaway — after swearing my wife to silence which didn't take much since she considers herself Switzerland and therefore the final arbitrator of all disputes in our house anyway.
About 15 minutes later I'm still decked out in my jogging gear drinking a cup of coffee when The Victim emerges from her room wearing two different styles of shoes. Met at the door by one of her friends they were headed off to ride bikes.
Here's where we open peace negotiations.
"Wow," her pal gushes, "radical shoe concept. I love it. Let's go back to my place so I can change."
Uh-oh. This ain't workin' like it's supposed to.
"Aren't you afraid of looking silly in two different pairs of shoes?" I asked.
"A little," she admitted, "but not half as silly as if I didn't have any underwear to wear. Like you don't since I stole all your underwear while you were out jogging. I'll trade you for my shoes when I get back." And she was gone. For three hours. That night we exchanged clothing like spies at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin.
My next run at her was to take all her music CDs and put them in the wrong jackets and holders. I was very proud of myself. I figured this would drive her nuts — every time she wanted to hear one kind of music, she'd get another. This backfired big time. Turns out she likes surprises. After all, she explained, it's all music she likes anyway, or she wouldn't have them.
On the other hand, I don't like country western, heavy metal or long-hair music. Which was all I could get after she re-programmed my car radio.
Time to get parental. Dictatorial. Time to set the record straight. Flex some muscle. Show 'em who's boss. Fun is fun but — hey — we're talking having to re-program 12 stations on my car radio. That's a lot harder than just having to re-file about 100 different CDs.
That didn't come out right either.
So — Erica — looks like the old lawn needs to be mowed. No, this isn't retaliatory per se. But the lawn does need to be mowed, and I had to do it when I was a kid, and you're still a kid, so .... What do you mean "That's not fair." All is fair in love and war. I love you and we're at war. Fair is fair.
Boy, the dumb things you say that will come back to bite you in the butt.
That afternoon I got home to find a cleanly mowed lawn with the clippings all raked up and bagged and the bags neatly stacked by the garage. Erica's off to her baby-sitting job and all is right with the world.
About an hour later the doorbell rings and it's a nice gentleman whose primary language is not English. He introduces himself and then hands me a note.
It read, "Dad, remember, all is fair in love and war. You owe this guy $60 for mowing the lawn."
I surrendered that night.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then it gets worse.
By Joe Acton
So there I was, sitting there minding my own business not suspecting nothing — reading about the Hubble Space Telescope. Fascinating gizmo, it can spot a dime from 10,000 miles and tell you what the strike date is. Probably a handy thing to have around the house but I don't really need to know what a dime looks like from 10,000 miles out. Besides, what can a dime buy me when Starbucks is running at $2 for an Americano?
Anyway, I'm sitting there really getting into this article, when suddenly I notice that my legs have fallen asleep. Time to leave. I knew I was in trouble when I discovered the empty toilet paper roll. It was just sitting there, too. Doing nothing. With nothing. Not even a square on it. And then I saw the note written in brightly colored pens taped to it and knew I'd been had.
It read, "Dear Dad, last week you used the last of the toilet paper in my bathroom and didn't replace it. Today we don't have any more so I took yours. Don't worry though 'cause I wrote "toilet paper" on Mom's shopping list. Love, Erica."
Okay, we're at war now. No problem — I can handle this. I went to college. I know all about pranks. I figured this was going to be the proverbial piece of cake. That is until I realized I owned the house and there were certain sure-fire pranks that no matter how good they were I couldn't use: no Saran Wrap across the toilet seats, no Limburger cheese in the heating vents, no taping ping-pong balls to the push-in lock on the door so the key won't open it. I panicked when I realized I couldn't use my best stuff.
First I went bush-league. Rubber spider in the bed. No brainer. Didn't phase her. She laughed at me. Tossed me one of those 13-nearly-14-year-old snidely guffaws that says, "Not even close, old man — you've been out of the game too long."
Then just to prove it, she retaliated by sneaking into my bedroom, stealing my new copy of Forsythe's The Negotiator and changed my place. I read in bed until I get sleepy so I only get about 5 or 6 pages a night. She moved me back about 4 days. I spent two nights trying to figure out why everything I was reading seemed familiar. At first I thought, "Wow, Acton — you ought to be a novelist. What insight into the rhythm and cadence of a complicated plot. What intuition to character development. What ..... what the heck's going on here ... I've already read this stuff!"
Time to turn up the heat on the little urchin. Bring out the Big Guns. Show her who's boss. That she can't monkey around with The Big Kahuna. Something so dastardly she'll sue for peace. A preemptive strike into the enemy's heartland.
It was a nasty and dangerous plan, but she'd given me no choice. While she was taking a bath, I would raid her room and steal one of each of her shoes — but just one from pair. Then she'd have to admit defeat or risk being seen in public with clothes that didn't match — a fate worse than death if you're 13.
At the appointed hour I put on my jogging gear and went for a run while she climbed into the tub. I doubled back and made my move. As I'm collecting all the shoes I can find, my wife happens by and gives me one of those patented, "What in the world are you doing" interrogations.
No sweat, we've been married for decades — she doesn't really expect a rational answer. When I tell her I'm grabbing Erica's shoes to force unconditional surrender, my wife says, "Oh, that's nice honey — very adult-like, too."
Oh yeah — says who? Wait a minute, that didn't come out right.
Anyway, I grab the shoes and make a clean getaway — after swearing my wife to silence which didn't take much since she considers herself Switzerland and therefore the final arbitrator of all disputes in our house anyway.
About 15 minutes later I'm still decked out in my jogging gear drinking a cup of coffee when The Victim emerges from her room wearing two different styles of shoes. Met at the door by one of her friends they were headed off to ride bikes.
Here's where we open peace negotiations.
"Wow," her pal gushes, "radical shoe concept. I love it. Let's go back to my place so I can change."
Uh-oh. This ain't workin' like it's supposed to.
"Aren't you afraid of looking silly in two different pairs of shoes?" I asked.
"A little," she admitted, "but not half as silly as if I didn't have any underwear to wear. Like you don't since I stole all your underwear while you were out jogging. I'll trade you for my shoes when I get back." And she was gone. For three hours. That night we exchanged clothing like spies at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin.
My next run at her was to take all her music CDs and put them in the wrong jackets and holders. I was very proud of myself. I figured this would drive her nuts — every time she wanted to hear one kind of music, she'd get another. This backfired big time. Turns out she likes surprises. After all, she explained, it's all music she likes anyway, or she wouldn't have them.
On the other hand, I don't like country western, heavy metal or long-hair music. Which was all I could get after she re-programmed my car radio.
Time to get parental. Dictatorial. Time to set the record straight. Flex some muscle. Show 'em who's boss. Fun is fun but — hey — we're talking having to re-program 12 stations on my car radio. That's a lot harder than just having to re-file about 100 different CDs.
That didn't come out right either.
So — Erica — looks like the old lawn needs to be mowed. No, this isn't retaliatory per se. But the lawn does need to be mowed, and I had to do it when I was a kid, and you're still a kid, so .... What do you mean "That's not fair." All is fair in love and war. I love you and we're at war. Fair is fair.
Boy, the dumb things you say that will come back to bite you in the butt.
That afternoon I got home to find a cleanly mowed lawn with the clippings all raked up and bagged and the bags neatly stacked by the garage. Erica's off to her baby-sitting job and all is right with the world.
About an hour later the doorbell rings and it's a nice gentleman whose primary language is not English. He introduces himself and then hands me a note.
It read, "Dad, remember, all is fair in love and war. You owe this guy $60 for mowing the lawn."
I surrendered that night.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then it gets worse.